FOR THE RECORD by Christopher Grant

FOR THE RECORD

We've been at this for the last three years, knocking off men and women and a couple of brats that were just this side of eighteen. We ain't no fucking kiddie killers, though the temptation has been great a handful of times.

Jordan had the lead for most people at one time (five) for half a year until I moved in with a family of four a month ago.

The sons, Nate and Joey, were twins, just about ready to ship off to college and Mom and Dad were looking to rent out their room. I'd be expected to keep the room the same once I moved into it, as the boys would probably be returning home during semester breaks. I had no problem with that as I didn't expect to stick around for that long.

Mom was a bit leery about me, somehow sensing something wasn't quite right with my motivation. I have to hand it to Mom. She was one fucking smart cookie.

Dad, on the other hand, was way too trusting. Dumbass Dad, as I came to know him, had set the price for the room and board at $175 a month. I could make more than that with one mugging victim, a means to supplement my income.

Nate and Joey were like all guys their age. Girlfriends occupied a majority of their time, cars and jet skis and pot and beer (which Mom probably knew about but Dad was totally oblivious to) filled out the rest of the hours that they were awake. I met a couple of their friends and have to say that they had pretty good taste in girls.

At the time, I was thinking that Jordan's record of five at once would never be broken and so I had aimed a bit lower, thinking I'd take these four out and then see what I could find elsewhere.

That's when Tiana and Sarah decided to come home from back east as a surprise.

I thought I had died and gone to heaven. And not just because Tiana and Sarah were hot. Nate and Joey and Mom and Dumbass Dad plus these two now equaled six. I could break Jordan's record, after all.

Mom introduced me to her girls and gave me a look that said, "Don't even think about it." I was most definitely thinking about it. Like I said, Mom was very wise.

Where Mom was smart about me and her boys, she was blind about her girls as both talked nonstop sex whenever and only when I was nearby.

A few hours after they arrived, Tiana, blonde and tall, approached me and asked me if I wanted a blow job. I had to decline, saying not that I didn't want one but with their mom keeping me under surveillance, it probably wasn't a good idea.

A couple hours after that, Sarah approached me with the same offer, even placing her hand on my crotch. It was hard to say no, especially when she nipped at my earlobe and told me that both she and Tiana would fuck me simultaneously.

I couldn't risk getting caught and getting tossed out on my ass. I had to play the sweet angel before I could take these people out. And I planned on taking them all out. Including the girls, even if it was a damn shame.

The night I decided to make my move, I slipped from the couch downstairs and into the boys' room. I had a silencer on the gun in my hand and I popped both of them without either of them putting up a fight.

I crossed the hallway and worked into Mom and Dad's room and found Dad but no Mom. I took Mom's pillow, put it over Dad's face, even though I had the silencer, and shot him through the pillow.

Mom was in the adjoining bathroom, the door slightly ajar. I could have easily gone in, shot her while she sat there taking her piss. But I just stood and listened until she finished, wiped and flushed. Everyone deserves to have a final piss. I shot her while she washed her hands.

The girls were the hardest to execute. In the past, I've killed any number of women, some of them prettier than others. I could have easily spared them and probably fucked them (if we'd met under different circumstances) but I had decided to keep playing the game Jordan and I were playing.

Tiana and Sarah were no different.

I knocked on their door, not caring how loud I rapped because, I mean, hey, everyone else was dead now.

Tiana came to the door and opened it up, standing there in a football jersey and socks.

"What time is it?" she asked.

I had the gun out of sight and I told her that it was one in the morning.

"What do you want?"

I thought it was obvious what I wanted. I fully intended to go ahead and fuck the two sisters and then kill them afterwards.

But I didn't like her tone. So I shot her in the forehead. She fell backwards, made a hell of a racket as she hit the floor.

Sarah woke up, saw me and screamed a loud, keening scream. I shot her in the face, then made sure she was dead.

I went down the stairs, rummaged through my bag and dialed Jordan on my cell phone.

"Your turn. Yep. Six. Call when you break it."

BIO: Christopher Grant is the owner and editor of A Twist Of Noir. His crime fiction has appeared at the now-defunct DZ Allen's Muzzle Flash and currently can be found at Powder Burn Flash, The Flash Fiction Offensive and here at Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers.

THE JESUS PEOPLE - by Lee Hughes

The prolific Lee's latest...

THE JESUS PEOPLE

Billy had needed clean clothes so he'd made the victim strip. He'd left the fool doubled over, naked, winded in the road. He stood before the building. He made sure he looked presentable.

Carol answered. She looked happy to see him. "Billy, we’re just having some refreshments, come in."

Billy smiled and stepped inside. He was surprised to see that the interior wasn’t all decked out with God-stuff. Billy followed her to the lounge. There were eleven other people in the room. A handsome man leant again the fireplace. A few women in the room ogled him. Billy figured it all out. The handsome man was the one that used his looks to suck in the girls. Carol was the one that led the men in by their cocks. He sighed. Her job was to hook the fish and reel them in.

Billy sat down ignoring the rest of the catch. He looked for things to steal. Silence fell when a man walked in. There was an air of confidence about him. Carol and the handsome man looked at him with lust. Behind, was his entourage, three of them.

The man's smile grew wider. "Welcome, I’m Quinn. . . and Jesus loves you."

His tone rode through the air. Somehow managing to pick everyone up and put them in the saddle of his words. This was preposterous. He might just be a low-life criminal, but he was smart enough to understand that the man was running a cult.

Billy stood up adjusting his pants as though he was a stranger to them. "Where's the bathroom?"

Quinn smiled. "Up the stairs, second door upon the left."

He didn’t need to piss. He just wanted to take something away from this farce, other than nonsense spilt from the bible. Billy went to the bathroom. He opened it and closed it to give the impression that he'd entered.

Down the hallway he moved, praying that the floorboards didn’t tell tales on him. Billy listened at the wood of the door. He opened it and slipped inside. Once the door was shut he flicked the switch. His eyes widened. The room was a myriad of sexual toys. From whips and chains to items that would kill during sex, or afterwards.

There was a loud crash from the hallway and screaming from downstairs. Billy knew the loud crash was someone kicking in the bathroom door. He looked for a weapon. He settled for a baseball-bat that had been wrapped diligently with barbed wire. The barbs were decorated with dried blood. He was already lifting it up. He could hear the footfalls of people outside.

His heart thumping drowned out the screams. Billy started towards the door. It door swung open, two men rushed in. Each gripped a soiled machete.

"Seems this one has some balls on him," said one.

"The question is whether he gets to use them before I chop the fuckers off," said the other.

Billy knew his chances of surviving this were slim. These lunatics were dripping with blood. Billy swung the bat.

The barbs whistled through the air. "You better believe I’m willing to use em."

He had a flashback of half-killing the night-watchman. Billy took a step forward. Another step, they'd be in swinging distance. Billy was about to swing when a voice from the doorway swept in, "Wait!"

It was Quinn, the false Messiah. The thugs stopped. Carol was talking in his ear. Her hands and face smeared with blood.

"It appears daughter Carol believes that you might be different. Are you a wolf, or a lamb?" Quinn said.

Billy didn’t put much thought into it. "I’m no one's sacrifice." He kept his bat aloft.

"Will you prove it?"

"Yeah," said Billy.

He knew enthusiasm would be what kept his blood in his veins. Quinn left with Carol still at his shoulder. Carol smiled at Billy. It differed from earlier. This new smile was sly, like the cat that had caught the mouse, but was keeping it for later.

They paraded down the stairs and into the lounge. It was a mess. There were bodies strewn upon the floor. Another was bound and blindfolded. Ghouls worked blood art upon the walls. A hand fell upon his shoulder.

A mouth teased his ear, whispering, "Which are you Billy?"

The blood started to fire up the cylinders in his body and the engine came alive. Just as it had when he had bashed in the watchman's skull. The hand on his shoulder began to stroke where neck became shoulder. Instead of calming the burgeoning fire of anger it was stoking it, getting him excited, it broke him.

He ran at the blindfolded man, his barbed-bat high. The man was silenced as his head caved in. Billy didn’t blink as the bat knocked the jaw away. The barbs stripped flesh as they rioted across the skin. Billy kept swinging. He felt like a winner. Everyone that had slammed him for being useless were silenced. Billy was more than the sum of his past life. He was greater, something that only gods could possibly fathom.

He swung that bat longer than needed. His arms burned and his face was flushed. He couldn’t remember when he had started to get the stitch in his side. All he could think about was this new echelon of being that he had ascended. Shoulder to shoulder with the gods.

Billy let the bat fall from sprained fingers. The stench of excrement mixed with the stink of the blood conjured up a perfume that swamped the room.

Whispers rode the tiny distance between lip and lobe, "Do you feel fantastic?"

"Yes," he panted.

Her hand slipped from his neck. Downwards until her fingers met his. She lowered him. She manipulated his arm like an amateur puppeteer. Dipping his hand into the blood. She ran his hand upon the wall in far from delicate designs. The art was childish, stray strokes and lopsided crosses. Truly childlike, but the innocence had been aborted. Once Carol had deemed the art done she licked at his fingers.
.
"You know why we just did that?" Carol asked.

Billy wasn't sure of anything. "No." His mouth was too dry for anything more than monosyllabic answers.

Quinn stepped forward, "We can now move forward."

The gathered smiled at Billy.

Billy watched from the floor. He was dizzy with the exertion and could hear a continuous pealing of dull and rusty bells. The bells rang out in moody exultation. Billy closed his eyes to hear the cacophony of tolls, he fell asleep to its lullaby.

Billy awoke. He could still hear the noise of another realm letting out joy at his arrival. He knew the noises came from a faltering mental health.

Carol’s voice broke through his musings, "Do you like the new you?"

He could hear her voice but he couldn’t see her. He rolled onto his back. She was standing naked and scarred. He spied the maps of injuries old and new that lapped at her skin. The stains marred only those parts that could be wrapped in secrecy beneath the folds of dresses and sleeves of blouses.

She smiled as though the white-puffed marks were awards and merits for all things deviant. "Each one reminds me of a pleasure." She ran a finger down a six inch track of damaged skin. "This was a gift from a man on my eighteenth birthday." Her finger strayed and circled a nipple that quickly grew erect, "Do you want me?"

He wanted to read her scars like Braille and to decide what art of his own to add to her atlas of horrors.

His soul had been awakened by murder and his sexual awakening had arrived through the medium of pain and bondage. They spent the whole of the next day in bed fornicating. In the evening, she led him downstairs.

They dined and the conversation was candid. Quinn asked, "What do you know of the great battle?"

"Not much."

Quinn seemed surprised, "And yet he still granted you a place in his ranks. We're going to pave the path for his arrival."

"How?" Billy asked.

"The hordes cannot move like us. We will lend them our bodies and we shall set the world afire."

Billy didn't believe in Heaven and Hell. Yes, he had felt like he had been instilled with greatness through his act, but the act was his own doing.

Breakfast was a simple affair. Billy noticed the door to where he'd committed murder was closed.

"Where are the bodies?" Billy asked.

Quinn looked up from his newspaper. "Disposed of. We'll be performing the ritual tonight and we'll be gone by the morning."

Quinn asked that Billy did neither of two things. The first was to leave the house. The second was that he didn't enter the front room.

Billy found himself bored in the kitchen. He winced as he put pressure on an unhealed wound. It had been ecstasy when the lash had swiped through his skin. Now it annoyed and pained him every-time he leant against something. Carol was preparing candles the colour of midnight. She brushed him off as she was busy.

Billy was about to say bollocks to it all when a warmth rode over his skin. It felt like a multitude of hands switching between massaging and gripping. His head became heavy once more with the chorus of the damned. Billy found himself paralysed. A whisper started in his skull, Chosen as my finder. Billy’s legs gave out. The obscene whispers continued. The whispering began to stroke pain into his legs. It stroked until it broke them. In that single solitary second between consciousness and the void he realised that the Devil was real and had made him his creature to be.

Billy awoke in the front room. The walls were still daubed with the scribbling. They had long ago ceased to be crimson and had drifted through the rainbow to shit-brown. He tried to sit up, pain creased his legs.

"I did tell you not to try and leave," Quinn said.

Billy looked about. Everyone was there. All wearing robes of red. He glanced down at himself. He too was wearing a red gown. He legs were straightened with homemade splints.

The light in the room came from the slippy lids of black candles. Billy didn’t want the Devil to redecorate his soul.

Quinn began muttering beneath his breath. Billy strained his ears to try and unlock the secret to it but couldn't. The others took up the black prayer. It reached a volume that was angry and filled with fervour. He knew he was in too deep.

The candles suddenly raged to life. Tall and robust flames of deepest red danced upon the candles. A breeze came alive in the room. Frolicking about the robes, lifting them in dark merriment. Billy could feel the touch of the other-world. They worked themselves into a frenzy. Billy looked away from the lunatic faces to the walls. Those symbols that had been developed with blood were coming alive. Seeming to slide all over the walls.

Billy pushed himself across the carpet to the corner. He huddled and watched as the Devil’s champions began to convulse as if electricity was being poured into their mouths. One of the nameless ones broke first. He was snapping his head as if fitting. His arms outstretched, his fingers drawn into tight claws. Tumours broke out like leprosy over his features. Billy gawped as he watched rips evolve in the man’s cheeks.

The nameless sinner turned his head, he was staring right into Billy’s eyes. There was no look of pain, it was pleasure. Billy saw something in the man’s eyes, fire. Bright tongues of flame wiped away the blue of the iris. The rips in the cheek grew. Widening until teeth could be seen. Needle-point teeth. Pushing and pecking like a hatchling prodding at its shell. The sinner pulled at his robe. Dragging it from his skin until he was naked. Busy in the throes of bestial labour, birthing something diabolical.

Others were beginning to show signs of their short devilled pregnancies coming. Quinn was shaking with holes being punched through his flesh. His head arced back, he screamed once as the demonic thing tore through his abdomen, the waste of Quinn toppling backwards. The demon collapsed to the floor. The demon that had been chewing its way to freedom through the man’s cheek did the same. The others were finding their demises in the same manner. Carol's devil-child was still born, leaving her ruined.

Billy felt something. It started like a hunger in his stomach. Billy didn’t need to eat. Satan fed him his own fiery meat. His children, His misfits, His thieves, His pride, and His fall. Billy howled as the demon took control of him. The demon put him to sleep as it stretched its limbs. His broken bones mended. It carved Billy, working him until it was something resembling a dog, more a cur. Something ragged that you’d have on a rope or didn’t mind kicking. The hound knew it was the favoured one in its master’s eyes. It moved, sniffing at its brethren, lapping now and again at the loose blood. Its front legs were too long to be a true quadruped. Its Master had designed it for a new role, hunter. The work to be conducted by the swell of the moon.

It scratched at the wood of the door, howling in frustration. Again and again it struck its head against the door. It turned, spied the windows. With badly proportioned muscles bunched, it struck glass. Its weight and momentum kept it going right through the pane. It landed with a sprawl upon the pavement. It panted and wheezed. It stretched its legs and took off at a lumbering speed. To the spectators the dog looked a mutt, a misused animal that belonged more to the gutter than the hearth of a family fire.

The Beast was free.

BIO:
Lee Hughes' short fiction has appeared in or is due to appear in the anthology Cern Zoo Nemonymous 9, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, A Twist of Noir, MicroHorror.com, The Daily Tourniquet and Powder Flash Burn. To find out more visit: leehugheswrites.blogspot.com.

FLY BOY - by Col Bury

FLY BOY

The phenomenon began after Johnny’s near death experience. Sure, there was a tunnel, bright light and euphoric feeling. Although before he reached the familiar figures he zoomed back to his body with a jolt.

The first person he saw after his so-called ‘accident’ was the nurse. She was glowing before him, her multi-coloured aura topped with a pastel pink halo.

Stunning.

He assumed it was a dream, or the drugs, so on his discharge he wasn’t prepared for what was next. The bus ride home, and with each turn peoples’ auras and halos swayed mesmerically.

Stunning.

Whenever he slept he’d leave his body and bounce around the neighbourhood, higher each night, until he realised he could fly. On finding, with concentration, he could actually touch in this state, he began searching.

Six months it took to find the cowardly bastard. No halo on this guy as he staggered into the Mondeo pissed. Johnny sat beside him, the dent - created by Johnny - still visible on the bonnet.

At 50mph a quick yank on the steering wheel was all it took to impact the tree.

Ignoring the screams, Johnny gazed at the swaying, mesmeric flames.

Stunning.

Then off he flew...

BIO:
Col Bury is currently writing a crime novel and his ever-growing selection of short stories can be found on TKnC and A Twist Of Noir. He blogs and interviews crime authors here:

http://colburysnewcrimefiction.blogspot.com/

Baton change by co-editors...

Hi all,
Just to let you all know having returned from my brother's stunning Greek wedding (more on my blog), Matt has gone to the States for Thrillerfest so please send any submissions my way till his return on July 14th. Just off to read the three I've missed and to post those in the pipeline - starting with the one below.
Col

TWO MASKED MEN - by Stephen D. Rogers

Stephen's impressive BIO expands on his TKnC debut...

TWO MASKED MEN

The clerk's head exploded in a spray of blood and brain. So much for hoping he did actually know how to open the safe.

"He was reaching for a gun!" Joey danced on his toes, pumped, still not realizing the import of what he'd done. "I saw his fucking hand move."

"What didn't you understand? You're supposed to stay back and watch. That's the sum total of your involvement."

"I was just trying to help." Even though I couldn't see his features through the mask, I knew I'd hurt his feelings. Joey had killed a man, screwed up a simple convenience store job, but I'd hurt his feelings.

"Let's go." I started for the exit.

"What? We can't go yet. We didn't get the fucking money!"

I held the door open for him, moths swarming in towards the overhead lights. "When a job goes bad, you cut your losses and run."

Joey pawed through a rack of chips until he found what he wanted. "I'm not leaving empty handed."

"Great." At least he still wore the gloves so he wouldn't leave fingerprints. "Your mother will be so proud."

Joey stopped in front of me. "Listen, old man. Just because you lost your fucking nerve, don't take it out on me."

"I'm not the one who opened fire on an unarmed man."

He blinked. And then left.

I let the door swing closed behind me, close with a "hush" as if in deference to the dead man inside.

Joey was too busy stomping to the car to notice, slamming his door, tossing his gun up onto the dashboard with so much anger that I half expected the weapon to go off.

His lack of self-control was an issue. He wouldn't be able to learn anything until he learned that.

Once in the car, I stared off into the darkness as Joey tried to start the car, cursing as he twisted the key again and again. Nothing.

"Damn piece of shit. Now what?"

"We hoof it." I opened my door. "Head west through those trees until we reach the highway."

"Fuck that." Despite his ambivalence regarding my plan, Joey joined me outside. "I didn't come with you to wander around the woods in the middle of the fucking night. You're supposed to be teaching me the business."

"You just learned something about stealing a getaway vehicle. Make sure it's capable of living up to its name."

Joey laughed. "You blaming me because the woman I jacked didn't give me a copy of her maintenance records? Fuck you. Enjoy your nature walk."

"What's your plan of action, Joey? Wait here for a tow?" I waved at the convenience store. "I picked a target set down in the middle of nowhere but someone is going to come along. They couldn't stay in business otherwise."

The car doors clicked locked.

Joey pounded the roof hard enough to leave a dent. "Fucking keys are inside."

"We don't need them." I took a few steps towards the woods to prove my point.

"But my chips are in there. And the gun."

I turned to face him. "Did you wipe it down before I picked you up like I said?"

"Yes."

"You ever touch it when you weren't wearing gloves?"

"No. I'm not stupid."

"Then the gun is fine where it is." I continued walking. "We were going to dump the piece anyway, now that it's a murder weapon."

"We can't--"

Headlights.

"Hold that thought until we're no longer in the open."

Swearing under his breath for once, Joey followed me into the woods, stepping out of the light as the approaching vehicle slowed and pulled into the parking lot.

I split my attention, wondering which was the most dangerous threat. "So, what were you saying?"

The driver stood next to the car and smoked while the female passenger went into the store.

Joey grinned. "That gun isn't exactly untraceable. Mom gave me your old piece. Said it would be perfect, you taking me on my first job, showing me the ropes. She likes to exaggerate your role in my life."

No fingerprints but a ballistic match, a burglar I'd killed in self-defense, walking with a suspended sentence, the weight of what I'd done hanging over me all these years. I never should have let her keep the gun when I split but the neighbourhood had started to slide and she didn't like being alone, just her and baby Joey.

The woman screamed. Came running out of the convenience store before the driver had a chance to rush in and save her. The two of them pouncing on their cell phones.

"Joey, go now." I pushed him. "You were never here."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Just go. Take off into the woods and disappear." I knew better than to suggest he try not to leave a trail, but then it didn't really matter since the cops would know I had a partner once they viewed the surveillance tapes.

"Are you crazy?" Joey tugged on my arm, yanking me deeper into the woods. "We have to get out of here."

I stood my ground. "You have to get out of here. That gun, it places me at the scene.

"So what?"

"Give me your gloves. There was only a single camera inside. Low end. I'll say I pulled the trigger. Stonewall on the driver."

"But--"

"Your gloves, now. Lose your mask in the woods. Accept a lift from the first vehicle not topped by flashing lights."

"I don't--"

"Once you reach someplace crowded, ditch your clothes before you grab another ride. How much money are you carrying?"

"Maybe twenty bucks but I got plastic."

"Here's another hundred. Pay cash."

Sirens, closing. "I'm sorry."

I patted Joey on the back. "Don't worry. I won't give you up."

Not again, anyway. I stepped out of the darkness, my hands in the air.


BIO:
Over five hundred of Stephen's stories and poems have appeared in more than two hundred publications. His website,www.stephendrogers.com, includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.

GRETA AT THE TRACK By Christopher Grant

The return of the dangerous lady...

GRETA AT THE TRACK

Teddy knew the track like it was the back of his hand. He knew when the races started without even looking at the Racing Form. He knew which horses would race better in various conditions just by looking at them. And he knew the quickest way to the window to avoid the crowd and place his bet.

What he didn't know how to do was win. Frequently, he found himself where he was right now: on the phone with a loanshark.

"Charlie," he said into the receiver, "you know I'm good for it. Come on. Yeah, yeah, well, fuck you, too!" He slammed the receiver down and put his hands in his pockets as he walked away from the pay phone. He still had a hundred and eighty or so, enough to place one last bet.

The six in the next race looked good and he let all of it ride on this one horse.

Returning to his seat, he was startled when a tall blonde slid into the chair next to his. She was wearing a white halter dress with a hem that came to rest just above her knees; one was wrapped in an Ace bandage. She had her hair tied back in a ponytail with a white ribbon. She crossed her legs, looked over at Teddy and smiled.

Maybe my luck is changing, Teddy thought.

The bell rang and the horses were out of the gate, with the number six leading the pack. Teddy jumped to his feet and screamed his lungs out. Around the first turn, the six was still leading the pack. Down the backstretch, Six was pulling away from the field, three lengths then five and then seven around the third turn.

"Go, you son of a bitch!" Teddy yelled.

The hundred-eighty that Teddy had put down would pay three-to-one. He'd be back on his feet, just in time for tomorrow's big one. Fuck Charlie and his fucking cash, Teddy would make it on his own.

Coming down the stretch, Six was ahead by ten lengths, then twelve, then sixteen. It was no contest. At the wire, it was a twenty length win for the six. And for Teddy.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

Teddy turned around, beamed at the blonde, who had never left her feet and appeared bored out of her skull.

"Did you see that?" he asked her. "Twenty goddamn lengths and I rake in at three-to-one."

"Really?" the blonde asked.

"Yep," Teddy said and then excused himself as he rushed off to the pay window.

Ten minutes later, counting his cash, the blonde approached him again.

"Thank you," she said, taking the money from his hands.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" This was insane. Who did this bitch think she was, stealing his hard won earnings?

"Charlie says hello," she said, as she grabbed his right index finger and bent it backward.

"Ow, Christ!" Teddy screamed and bent foward, cradling his hand against his gut. He drew the attention of more than a few in line to place a bet.

"Sshhh," the blonde said, her voice calm and soothing. She took the ribbon from her hair and tied it around Teddy's dislocated finger. "This is a reminder of what you still owe. I'd get that looked at as soon as possible." She patted his shoulder and started to walk away.

"Tell my brother, uh, shit," Teddy said, playing around with his finger, trying to put it back in its socket. "Tell Charlie he'll get it all back."

"Yeah," the blonde said. "That's what they all say."

***

BIO: Christopher Grant is the owner and editor of A Twist Of Noir. His fiction has appeared on the now-defunct DZ Allen's Muzzle Flash, as well as Powder Burn Flash, The Flash Fiction Offensive and here at Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers.

GIRL ABOUT TOWN By Lee Hughes

A new shocker from Lee...

Girl About Town


The night had arrived. The darkness swarmed. Choking and blanketing everything.
If the battery in her MP3 player hadn't died then Jessica would never have heard the footfalls behind her. Not that knowing they were there made any difference. She still ended up dead. All she achieved was to give some sport to the sicko, in the form of a chase. Her friends, they had called her a girl-about-town. The following morning she literally was one. They still hadn't found her head.

A copper looked at the lane they'd been sent to cordon off. Another one stood at his side, "Think it's another rented and dented?"

"No. Don't think so. I think he's just stepped up from offing whores," was the reply.

The man had wanted to get his jollies. Now he was ducking into the back of his chauffer-driven car. At speed, the car dragged itself away into the rain-swept night.

Tobin looked up. The rain pummelled him. Tonight, there was no moon to keep vigil. Just as well. Its silver reach would have hidden the show and smothered its ethereal splendour. To Tobin, the show wasn't a splendorous thing. It was a sickening thing. He only did it for the money.

Tobin looked down from the heavens and to the lane. The blood was gone. It hadn't been washed away by the rain, but by the age of a week. The man had been the first punter that he'd taken to the lane. The window for opportunity was small. Sooner or later the murderer would be caught and the hotspots would cool, soon becoming nothing but normal.

Tobin sat in the chair and drank his way towards the morning. The light that seeped in through the ill-fitting curtains awoke him. The shards of light jabbed at his eyeballs. He turned his head to the side and felt sorry for himself some more.

That lasted for no more than a thrifty minute before there was a thumping at the door. The kind of heavy-handed knock that meant either debt-collectors or the police. He hoped it was the debt-collectors as he had the money for them. Something inside told him it was the latter.

He wasn't wrong. Tobin had a knack for bringing back the moments of someone's murder for the entertainment of others. So being a little precognitive didn't bowl him over with wonder. The pair on his doorstep weren't in blues and twos. These two men were the supposed brains. The taller one asked, "Mr Stanley Tobin?"

"Yeah," admitted Tobin. Though he hated when his name was said like that. That's why he'd reversed it all those years ago. Tobin Stanley sounded a much better name. Stan sounded like a pot-bellied, dart-playing dustman. The shorter of the two asked, "Can we come in?"

"Yeah," said Tobin as he backtracked and nodded with his head.

They both had a sniff of the air, real hound-dogs with warrant cards. Tobin leant up against the wall and asked them, "What're you sniffing for? Drugs, explosives, bits of dead women?"

"What?" asked the Detective named Porter momentarily stunned. As was his colleague Detective Keyes who added a, "Huh?"

Tobin shunted himself off the wall with his shoulders and walked across the room, "I don't drive so it can't be speeding tickets."

"Strange you should jump straight to that conclusion though, Mr Tobin. Perhaps we're just doing a door-to-door," said Porter.

"Nah. I'd have heard next door's Alsatian barking. Goes mental when someone knocks at the door."

"Maybe dogs like us," said Keyes. Tobin shrugged, "Suppose someone has to." That made both detectives’ eyes harden. Tobin could see they were done with playing games. Tobin scratched at his neck, "Look. I'm tired and hung-over. Let's just get on with this and get it done with. Do you want to sit?"

"You can. But, I think we'll stand," said Porter. Tobin shrugged and sat down in the chair he usually slept in.

"Where were you last night?"

"Down Saddle Lane," admitted Tobin.

"On your own?" asked Keyes.

"No. I was giving a tour," said Tobin, no point in lying. Someone that knew him must have spotted him and the client hanging about the place and grassed. Porter made a couple of notes. He looked up, "And who was this man?"

"No idea. He paid me cash."

"So. Let me get this straight then. You gave someone a tour of the place where the murder of that young woman happened and this man paid you for it?"

"Yeah."

"Why didn't he just go down to Saddle Lane on his lonesome and save himself some cash? How much did he pay by the way?"

"He'd not have seen anything if he'd just been on his 'lonesome' and he paid me a grand," said Tobin. No point in holding anything back. In for a penny, in for a pound and all of that nonsense. The amount grabbed at their attention more than anything. They instantly looked as though they were in the wrong business. Then the shock passed, well it did for Porter, "Sounds like you’re running one of those charlatan clairvoyance things. Conning people out of their cash."

"It's the real deal," said Tobin as he kept complete eye-contact. Keyes took a turn, "The real deal? You trying to say that you can see the murder? Actually show it to pervs?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," replied Tobin.

"That's sick and twisted!" said Keyes. Porter decided it was his turn, "I have severe doubts about its legitimacy. But at the moment that's neither here, nor there. You see. We trawled Saddle Lane the morning after parts of the murdered woman were discovered. We found a footprint. Everything was recorded and removed. Then we get reports of you and 'Mr A. Nother' poncing about the lane. So, we go back this morning and we notice a rather familiar and very distinctive footprint. Now looking at the size of you. You're a tad bit short for them to be yours. So we think it might just belong to your client. We'd like to know who he his."

"I really don't know," said Tobin.

Keyes said, "I think you're lying, I mean how do people just stumble upon your services?" Tobin shook his head, "Same way if a guy wants to get off watching a nun blow a chimpanzee. There's ways and means."

"So. How'd he make contact?" asked Porter.

"There's a load of people that know about my talents. Anyone of them could have given him my number. He phoned up and said what he wanted. He asked me how much and I told him. Met him there. He paid in cash. I can show you the wedge if you want?"

"So you saw him then?"

"No. He wore a mask."

"I think you're lying."

"I'm not. I've been completely honest with you so far. But, the only way I think I can prove it is to take you there, tonight." Porter looked to Keyes and shrugged, "Think we can spare a few hours?"

Tobin watched the night come in from inside the unmarked car. Seeing as it had barely been mid-morning when he had gave them such an odd offer they had stayed with him to make sure that he didn't get up to any mischief. Tobin hadn't been chuffed with how he had been forced to spend his day. He knew that it was the only way to get the police off his back. Tonight's moon was just the tiniest of slices, its presence, hoped Tobin wouldn't mar what the detectives had waited all day long to see. Porter looked at his watch. The coroner had estimated the time of death at being somewhere about eleven o'clock. Tobin had informed them that it was seven-minutes past to be precise. Keyes yawned and said, "Can't believe we're doing this. I mean, it's like a story from one of those old Pan horror books I used to read as a kid." A smile grew on Porter's face, "I remember those. A friend of mine once half-inched one from Woolworths."

"If you want to watch this we need to get out of the car now," said Tobin, breaking up the reverie. All three of them got out and immediately felt the pinch of the cold night air.

Tobin led them to near the maw of the lane.

"You'll get to see all that you need from here," said Tobin as he waited to feel the wind of events begin. It always began the same. He could feel the undiluted fear. His heart reluctantly taking on the panicked beat of the victim. He could even taste their screams in his mouth. It was at that point that he projected them, made them visual. As the ethereal vision began to mix with the living, breathing plane of existence. He looked at the detectives. He wanted to see the look of realisation upon their faces. The look that showed him that they now knew he was telling the truth. That he was very much innocent. Tobin, he didn't get to see those looks. He saw hungry faces. Keyes grinned, "I couldn't see properly last night from the car."

"I told you it was real and that it was a threat to us," replied Porter.

Keyes withdrew a knife from inside his jacket. Porter did the same.

Tobin backed into the lane, "What the fuck!" were his last words as Porter and Keyes fell about the task of cutting him up and cutting him down. All the while right up until the moment he died Tobin projected the violent murder of Jessica Wilson into the lane. Misery, they say, loves company.

Bio:

Lee Hughes' short fiction has appeared in or is due to appear in the anthology Cern Zoo Nemonymous 9, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, A Twist of Noir, MicroHorror.com, The Daily Tourniquet and Powder Flash Burn. To find out more visit, www.LeeHughesWrites.BlogSpot.Com.

BLEEDING OUT By Eric Beetner

Welcome to Eric Beetner who asks the question about...

BLEEDING OUT

Will knew that somewhere back in the eighth grade his science teacher had told the class how much blood was in the human body but he couldn’t remember the answer right then. He couldn’t recall her name either, just that she had a crazy amount of arm fat that swung violently when she wrote on the chalkboard. Must have been that swinging sack of fat that distracted him from learning how many quarts of blood a body held.

He didn’t have anything to measure it with anyway. Sure was a lot though. More every second. Harlan didn’t look good.

Kris was weaving the car in and out of traffic with much more expertise than he had a right to after only two years of having his license but necessity is the mother of good driving. Will kept both hands on the wound that pumped blood out of Harlan’s chest and onto the tan cloth seats in the back of Kris’ ’92 Escort. Not exactly the car of choice for hardened thieves but as criminals these three were about as hard as oatmeal.

Here, in high-speed retreat from their first job, Will couldn’t believe it could all fall apart so completely so quickly. It made him rethink his entire position on his second amendment rights. That whole argument that he used to buy into that guns don’t kill people, people kill people he knew now was bullshit with a capital B. If they hadn’t gone into that liquor store with a gun, the guy behind the counter wouldn’t have felt as threatened and he wouldn’t have pulled his gun.

Kris had insisted that bringing the gun was an effective tool to get anyone to do what they wanted. It wasn’t loaded and Kris said that made Will’s point moot when he protested that it wasn’t safe. It doesn’t really work, though, when the person you’re pointing the gun at doesn’t know it isn’t loaded. And if you tell them, then the effectiveness of the gun is really lost. The logic of it had eluded them at the time of the planning.

That guy, the one who shot Harlan, was scared shitless. Will could see it the second Kris pulled the piece. Skinny, Indian or Bangladeshi or something, his eyes got wide and watery. He thought for sure he was dead. No way would he have gone that ballistic trying to save two hundred bucks in the till. He moved fast and kind of jittery like watching an old silent movie only the blood that erupted from Harlan’s chest was in technicolor. He must have popped off ten shots in about three seconds. Will and Kris ducked and dove for cover behind a towering display of bargain tequila. Bottles shattered, glass and liquor showered on them. Harlan was hit twice in the chest.

Kris made it through a red light with a nanosecond to spare. Can’t afford a traffic stop now.

“We’re going to the hospital, right? Right?”

It was a continuation of an argument that Will had started with Kris while they were still in the store. After the clerk emptied his gun he ducked down behind the counter to wait for his inevitable death. Kris was trying to wipe tequila from his burning eyes when he began shouting like a marine on the beach at Normandy, “GO! Go! Move it!”

Will was already at Harlan’s side doing triage which wasn’t easy because Harlan was tossing his body across the slick floor like a shark out of water. He kept jumping and leaping as if he could somehow still dodge the bullets now lodged in his chest.When Will first applied pressure to the hole just above Harlan’s left nipple line he brought with it the alcohol burn of the tequila and some shards of broken bottle. It made Harlan arch his back and yelp. Kris was already out the door leaving the two of them behind.

Outside, Kris had been able to open his eyes enough to notice that he was alone. He crouched and made it back to the doorway but stayed outside.

“Come on! Leave him!”

Will was outraged.

“What? Fuck you. Come help me!”

Kris wiped at his eyes again and changed his mind sixteen times in a single second before giving in and going inside to help. The echo of the gun shots had faded and the only sounds were glass crunching under Kris’ feet as he ran to meet them, Harlan’s moans, which were hollow since he couldn’t catch his breath with two bullets in his lungs, and the continued drip of tequila from the busted tower of bottles.From behind the counter came the unmistakable sound of reloading.Will snatched up Harlan’s legs, Kris grabbed him under the armpits and they carried him out slipping on blood and booze as they went.

That was all of ten minutes ago but never in Will’s life had so much been crammed in to so little time.

“The hospital, Kris. Come on.”

“We can’t. They have to report bullet wounds to the cops.”

“He’s dying, man!”

“Let’s just think it through.”

Will gave up on trying to use direct pressure and drilled a finger into each hole in Harlan’s chest. His right index finger plugged the hole just under his left armpit and his left index finger pushed all the way up the the knuckle in the hole on his right side. It seemed to work. It couldn’t have been a good sign that Harlan barely even flinched when he did it. It had to hurt like hell. He looked groggy the way he had so many times before he passed out drunk in high school. The last time was at the graduation party in Harlan’s own basement just three months ago. It was just another excuse to get drunk, not like any of them were going to college. Only a week after they graduated Harlan had noticed that during high school they wanted nothing more than to hook up with older girls from the community college and how instantly after graduation the real thrill was in trying to score with high school chicks. Funny how that works.

So much damn blood. Will’s socks were soggy with it. Kris gnawed on his finger nails as he drove, trying to figure out some other alternative to delivering Harlan right to the steps of the authorities.

“Please man. He’s really dying here.” Kris tried to shut out Will’s pathetic whining. They had all undertaken this together. The possibility of a cluster fuck had always been present. They hadn’t discussed it much but Kris never felt they had to. They were all grown men. They could handle a little hitch in the plan.

“Please, Kris. Take him to a hospital. Please.”

Will was crying now. He didn’t feel like a grown man. He’d never felt like a criminal. He wanted to be back in science class, paying attention, writing it all down. Studying for tests, getting scholarships. He was scared straight. A little too late.The car slowed. They were nowhere near the hospital. Kris had driven them out beyond the town limits onto the road that used to lead to the drive-in before that closed back in 1974. Weeds grew up from either side of the road so high that you couldn’t even see the lights from the semis on the highway.

Will kept his head down, fingers thrust down into his best friend’s chest, weeping for all the bad choices he had made.

Kris gripped the wheel. He had no idea how he was going to explain the blood on the back seat when he brought the car back home. Fuck it, run the car off the road. Torch it. That was Kris’ way.

When they were all twelve they stole a stack of Penthouse magazines from Will’s Dad and spent the afternoon in the woods marveling at the world of sex that awaited them in adulthood. When they returned, Will’s father’s car was in the driveway and the boys panicked.

“Burn them!” Kris said.

Will and Harlan didn’t have any other plan so they let Kris use his zippo that he carried (in his front pocket next to his folding knife, neither of which he had a legitimate use for) and lit the stack on fire. Five minutes later when Will’s Dad came running into the woods to investigate the plume of smoke coming from his back yard the boys were in trouble on multiple counts.

Six years later Harlan and Will were still following Kris into some bad ideas. Will was barely aware that the car had stopped. When Kris slammed the front door it jerked Will out of his crying jag. The door behind Will opened and he nearly tumbled out backwards. Both of his fingers popped out of Harlan’s chest making a sound like a party favor. Blood began to flow unabated.

Kris pushed Will to the floor and reached in to grab Harlan by the ankles. He yanked once and Harlan slid on a wet trail of plasma toward the open door.

“What are you doing?” Will asked.

Kris yanked again and Harlan was out of the car, whacking his head on the door frame on his way to the ground.Will struggled against his slick hands and feet to get footing before he was able to vault himself out of the car onto the cool pavement. The headlights cast bright beams forward, as if there was still something to see ahead of them, leaving everything behind them in darkness like a secret. Like an erased memory.

Kris reset his grip on Harlan’s legs and dragged his body across the road leaving a streak of red that looked black in the night. Harlan groaned but did not protest, he moved but barely in a way you could call alive.

Will was weak. He didn’t rush across the road to stop Kris, didn’t scream at him to halt. He let his shoulders sag and resumed his crying. “Kris, come on. It’s Harlan, man. He’s one of us.”

Kris dragged the body into the high weeds and let him go. He wasn’t particularly well hidden. Where Kris and the body had broken through the weeds was a huge divot in the line of tall grass like a missing tooth. For a road that no one traveled on, it was good enough.

Kris didn’t look back as he returned to the car. Will crossed the road and sank into the weeds next to Harlan. The matted grass held his body up off the ground. The long stalks under Harlan had started to absorb the last few ounces of blood, turning the stalks from light to dark as if the ground was drinking him from a straw.

Will heard the door slam as Kris got back inside. The engine idled.

Unseen, the steady stream of 18-wheelers rushed by on the highway like the tide going out.

Will heard the muffled scream of Kris letting out his anger and his fear in a primal scream. The confines of the car trapped most of the sound but what escaped cut through Will. The engine revved into the red but the car did not move. Kris took his foot off the gas and the car returned to idle.The window rolled down.

“Let’s go, man.”

“I’m staying.”

The left headlight flickered and died. A single beam cut into the dark and lit the road ahead showing the curve of the pavement leading to the unknown.Will put his hands on Harlan’s chest. Not to stop the bleeding but just to know when he breathed his last. The Escort’s engine dropped into gear and Kris spat up gravel from the shoulder as he drove away.

Six quarts, Will remembered. The body holds six quarts. Not enough.
______________________

Bio: Eric Beetner's fiction has appeared in A Twist of Noir, Pulp Pusher, Thuglit, Crooked, Darkest Before Dawn and Powder Burn Flash as well as in podcast form on crimewav.com Eric's debut novel 'One Too Many Blows To The Head' (co-written with JB Kohl) will be out later this year. For more info check out ericbeetner.blogspot.com

DEVIL GONE MISSING by John Wiswell

Flash fiction is always welcome, and so are new contributors. TKnC welcomes John Wiswell to the fold...

Devil Gone Missing

Pat shot out of his chair when Conner finally came home. The boy’s clothes were crusted in brown grime and he was breathing with heavy excitement.

“Where you been, boy? Gone for four days without a word!” Pat said, pulling him inside. Conner followed his old man’s lead to the kitchen with such a smile that Pat could barely bear it.

“You look devastated. Like you found Jesus.”

“Is he missing, too?” The boy sucked in air in little bursts, like reverse laughter. “I just spent days finding the devil. You’d have been so proud, Pat.”

He reversed-laughed some more and bent towards the sink. When the water ran over his hands the brown turned a little red and circled the drain. Pat’s eyes widened at the change of color.

“You did what, boy?”

Conner beamed at him from over his shoulder, scrubbing his hands with lava soap. “Finally cornered him at the dump. His tail stuck in an old box spring, and he’d dropped his pitchfork.”

“Boy?” Pat moved nearer to the door. “Boy, what did you do?”

Smoke began to rise from the sink.

***

Bio: John will write anything once. His blog, www.johnwiswell.blogspot.com, features monologues, vignettes, character sketches, list fiction, straight dialogue and other forms of brief prose spanning humor, Horror, History, science, Fantasy, and all corners of the absurd.

Message from the co-editor...

Hi folks,

I'm off on my jollies to Rhodes for my brother's wedding so please send any submissions to Matt for the next week.

If any members of the criminal fraternity are reading this and have any bright ideas re' paying my house a visit while I'm away, then don't forget to feed my cousin's Rottweilers and say thanks to him for house-sitting (some of my stories are based on him so beware!).

Hope to read some more crackers on my return!

Col